Honora Holmes
by PowerOfPens
Summary: The cellar is a depressing place to live, in less your a Holmes. The story of the middle sister and her absence from her brothers' lives.
1. Chapter 1

Honora walked down the halls of her old home, remembering the good times before her disappearance. She unlatched the door to the basement and descended the cold stone stairs of the cellar, her bed room. There had been no need to force her to live down there, only that her father had no wish to see her. She remembered herself as a child, a mere four-year-old girl, shivering in her cot in the winter. She had been terrified by the cool stone walls and the loud echoes. As she had grown up, she resolved to make her living quarters a little nicer. She never had need of anything and she requested paint and brushes. Interments were never lacking and the manor soon became filled with a beautiful melody that never found a source. She danced, sung, painted, read, drew and played to pass the time. Now, as her delicate feet touched the cool stone, she lifted her candle to the wall to admire the paintings of the precious moments she had shared with her brothers, preserved in stone. Her eyes fell upon one of her favorites, a quiet nursery, a seven-year-old boy holding a baby and a three-year-old girl on her tip toes to catch a glimpse of the new born. Honora sighed, she could recall the conversation on that blessed day:

"What's his name, My?" asked the girl with that childish wonder.

"Quiet Aurie! Don't wake him up." Answered the boy sternly.

"What's his name?" she whispered this time.

"His name is Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes."


	2. Chapter 2

Today was the one day of the year I could not bear. I pushed thought away, the doctor was looking at me strangely.

"Holmes!"

"What is it Watson?" I replied meekly.

"What is wrong? You've been acting very strangely, to day."

"It is nothing Watson."

"Then why have you not played anything? You picked up that violin three hours ago, have placed it upon your shoulder, but not a sound."

Just then the phone rang, I picked it up flinging my instrument on my armchair.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock." I cursed under my breath. It was Mycroft, but his voice was slurred from drink.

"God Mycroft, what's wrong?" Mycroft never drinks.

"Can you come?" The drink was enough to convince me.

"Are you at the club?"

"Yes."

"I'm coming Mike, every thing will be fine, alright."

I practically flew out the door, hardly stopping to tell Watson where I was headed.


	3. Chapter 3

Honora put down the phone with a smile. So Sherlock is still just as sweet and caring as he used to be. Mike. Sherlock's favorite pet name for Mycroft. She wondered if My would be glad to see her or if he would be angry. Lock was a detective now, and when he arrived at the Diogenes Club to find his brother fine, he would naturally investigate. But Honora was still nervous about Sherlock's state. She shivered as she thought of the cocaine bottles her brother would consume. Finally she decided on a disguise.


	4. Chapter 4

She pulled up her hair in a tight bun and downed a cap and wig. Then she chose a heavy overcoat and worn trousers. She finalised it by squaring her jaw and limping heavily on her walking stick. Honora Holmes, a woman with long black curly hair, piercing grey eyes and a delicate walk that hardly made a sound, had transformed into Jeremy Cartwell, a man with a military cut, haunted grey eyes, and a heavy limp.

Dr. Watson had just left Baker Street when Jeremy found him. He deduced that the doctor was going to a pub and decided to act.

He bumped into him wile walking at a brisk pace. Cartwell stumbled back and, tripping on his bad leg, fell to the ground. It was a success. Dr. Watson instantly apologised, helping the soldier to his feet.

"No sir, it isn't your fault. Since Afghanistan, I haven't been all here."

"I quite understand, I myself was invalided home from Afghanistan."

"Really sir? That is quite the coincidence. Excuse me sir, but I'm from out of town, do you know the nearest pub?"

"As a matter a fact, I was headed there myself."

"Then do allow me to by you a drink as an apology for bumping into you."

An hour later the two men were talking freely. After exhausting the topic of the Afghan campaign, Doctor Watson asked:

"What do you do now?"

"Charity work mainly, an army medic is quite useful to the poor buggers on the street."

"What kind of work?"

"I help ween them off cocaine. After my younger brother nearly killed himself on it, well, I made a mission of it."

"That must be hard. I helped my flatmate off the stuff, but he made an awful patient. What is his name?"

"Who?"

"Your brother."

Cartwell was dying to say Sherlock Holmes but he controlled himself.

"Sherly." He mentally cursed himself, Sherly was Mycroft's pet name for Sherlock.

"Sherly?"

"They were hoping for a girl."

"Ah. Do you have other siblings?"

"My older brother, Mike." Thank you, Sherlock, for choosing something normal. "What about you?"

"My elder brother, Hamish, died a few years ago."

"I'm sorry."

"But my flatmate Sherlock Holmes is as close as a brother."

"The one who used cocaine?"

"Yes."


	5. Auther's note

Sorry for the interruption, but I need help.

I have run out of ideas!

Please send suggestions...

Aurie needs help to return to her brothers!


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock Holmes was surprised to see Dr. Watson come home with a friend. He took no notice of them as he was in deep thought, meditating the possible implications of the phone call. He did look up however when he heard a curse muttered under the newcomer's breath.

Dr. Watson had seated the guest on a chair near the lamp. The guest was pail, a military man. His right sleeve was cut off to reveal a deep cut. It must have bleed considerably. The man was sitting quite stiffly, clearly in considerable pain. Dr. Watson was cleaning it.

"Don't move or it will hurt more." Said the doctor to his patient.

"I'm a bloody medic, don't give me that nonsense."

"Hullo Watson. Have a little adventure on your way home from the pub?"

"Yes Holmes, we were attacked by crooks."

"Oh." He got up and walked over two the two doctors.

"You must be M. Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson has spoken highly of you. My name is Jeremy Cartwell." Said the visitor, with a tight smile, putting out his good hand. "You'll excuse my shaking on my left?"

"It is quite understandable M. Cartwell."

A few minutes later the wound was bandaged and Cartwell rose, "Well Dr. Watson, Thank you for the drink, the adventure and the bandage. I really must be going, but it was nice to meet you, and you as well M. Holmes. Goodnight!" He left.

The next hour was spent in quiet thought. Holmes had only one explanation for the phone call, but he thought it must be impossible. She was dead.

"I say Holmes," Watson said, "Cartwell forgot his handkerchief."

Holmes glanced over at it, but he blanched when he recognised the item his friend was holding, an old red handkerchief with the initials H.H. embroidered rather clumsily in white tread.


End file.
